Chapter 4: The Scale of Devotion
The chamomile tea had turned to acid in his stomach. Misha walked home in a daze, the memory of Ilia’s hands on him a brand that both warmed and ached. Adequate.The word replayed in his head, a taunt and a promise. For days, he moved through his own life like a ghost. Dance rehearsals felt different; his muscles, once a source of pride, now seemed like a betrayal. He caught his reflection in the studio mirror—the definition in his shoulders, the line of his thighs—and saw only bulk. Ilia’s voice echoed.Your softness.Your obedience.He shaved every morning without fail. The ritual became sacred, the smooth skin a daily offering. He wore the softest clothes he owned, things that draped and concealed any hint of angularity. He waited for a text, an instruction, living in the suspended silence after a fracture.
When Ilia’s message finally came a week later, it was just an address and a time.No greeting.Misha’s heart hammered against his ribs. He chose a thin, dove-grey linen shirt and loose trousers. He’d lost three pounds without even trying, just from the constant, low hum of anxiety.
Ilia opened the door dressed in crisp, charcoal slacks and a white Henley.He looked carved from stone. His gaze swept over Misha, and for a second, Misha thought he saw a flicker of approval. He stepped inside, the polished concrete cool through his socks.
“Come here,” Ilia said, not moving from the doorway.Misha approached. Ilia reached out and took Misha’s left arm, his fingers wrapping around the bicep.He squeezed, not gently.His brow furrowed.
“Turn around.”
Misha did. Ilia’s hands landed on his shoulders, kneading the trapezius muscle.He made a low, dissatisfied sound.“Still too tight here. Too much tension. And this…” His hands slid down Misha’s back, feeling the latissimus muscles.“You’re still too bulky.The dancer’s muscles.I need you smaller. Softer.”
The words were a physical blow. Misha’s confidence, carefully gathered over the past week, shattered.He stared at a seam in the concrete floor. “I’ve been trying.”
“Trying isn’t the same as doing,” Ilia said, his voice flat. He took Misha’s hand—a gesture that should have been tender but felt like a command—and led him across the vast living room to a corner Misha hadn’t noticed before. A sleek, digital scale sat on the floor beside a full-length mirror framed in black steel.“Strip. To your boxers.”
Misha’s fingers trembled as he unbuttoned the linen shirt. The air in the apartment was cool on his skin. He folded the shirt neatly, placed it on the floor, then pushed his trousers and socks off. He stood in his plain cotton boxers, feeling the immensity of the windows, the exposure. Ilia watched, his expression unreadable, analytical.“Step on.”
The scale’s glass surface was cold. The red digits flickered, then settled: 162 lbs.Ilia let out a slow breath. “You need to lose at least twenty pounds.Probably more.And it’s not just weight. It’s composition.I want you dainty. Not sturdy.” He gestured for Misha to step off.“Your dancing… what’s your routine?”
“I train six days.Mostly contemporary. It’s strength, flexibility, cardio…”
“Too much strength,” Ilia interrupted. He walked to a drawer, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and handed it to Misha. “This is your new discipline.You’ll follow it exactly.”
Misha looked down. The meal plan was brutal: egg whites and spinach, plain chicken and steamed greens, precise portions of brown rice. No sauces.No red meat.No sugar. The workout regimen was all long-distance running, Pilates, and long-hold stretches.Nothing that promoted muscle growth. Everything designed for elongation, leanness, submission.“You will run every morning.You will do this flexibility routine every night. You will eat this food, at these times.You will send me a photo of every meal. We will check progress weekly, here, on this scale.” Ilia’s tone brooked no argument. “Do you understand the purpose?”
Misha’s throat was tight.He managed a nod.
“Say it.”
“To make me softer.Smaller. For you.”
“Yes.” Ilia finally moved closer.He cupped Misha’s cheek, his thumb stroking the perfectly smooth skin. The contrast between the harsh instruction and this sudden tenderness was dizzying. “This is the reverence I require.It’s a sacrifice of your former form. It’s proof.” He leaned in, his lips brushing Misha’s ear. “Your willingness to reshape yourself for me… that’s what I find beautiful.”
The praise, conditional and devastating, flooded Misha’s system like a drug. The sting of inadequacy was still there, sharp and cold, but it was now wrapped in the warm, addictive blanket of Ilia’s approval.He had a path. A painful, hungry, exacting path, but it led straight to Ilia’s desire.
“I’ll start today,” Misha whispered.
Ilia smiled, a real one this time, and it felt like a reward.“Good boy.Now get dressed. You have a run to do.”
As Misha pulled his soft clothes back on, his mind was already racing, calculating. He’d need a food scale.A running app. He thought of his next dance class, how he’d have to modify, to hold back. He thought of the growing hollow in his stomach, soon to be literal.He looked at the meal plan again, the numbers stark and impersonal.
He folded the paper carefully, a sacred text. The scale’s red number, 162, was etched behind his eyes. His new goal, his only goal, was to make it disappear.